


French Roast

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bad French, For Science!, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For what possible reason could you need to know such an irrelevant detail? Is knowledge of my name somehow integral to the coffee-making process, hm?” The customer positively glowers, eyebrows descending back down for maximum frown.</p><p>Jean-Philippe is delighted. It normally takes much more baiting to get this kind of reaction. And such paranoia! He can tell he and this customer are going to get along splendidly (his refusal to wear a name badge is yet another point of contention between him and Betsy). “Company policy,” he replies smoothly, leaning over the counter casually, just slightly invading the customer’s personal bubble. “Wouldn’t want to get your order mixed-up with another customer’s, non?” </p><p>The customer shifts his weight agitatedly, hand straying back to the coat pocket he’d deposited his phone in. “Can it be an alias?”</p><p>It’s Jean-Philippe’s turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t see why not.” He’d wanted to learn the customer’s name, but it could be interesting to see the name he chooses to use. Revealing in its own way, and besides, there’ll be other opportunities to learn the man’s name. He intends to make sure of that.</p><p>“Fine,” the customer says irritatedly. “Doctor… Nemesis.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Roast

“I’ll take the caramel mocha frappuccino. In a large, or whatever arbitrary word you have decided to use for the largest serving here.”

Jean-Philippe raises an eyebrow, and turns from wiping down the espresso machine to regard this morning’s first customer. Eccentric, he decides, eyes lingering on the white hair, white fedora, and matching suit. Eccentric but cute. He pastes on a charming smile and saunters over to the till. “Is that to go?” he enquires politely, leisurely entering the order into the till.

The customer is nearly vibrating on the spot, fingers drumming pointedly on the counter. Someone is either in dire need of a caffeine fix, or has by 9am already consumed too much caffeine.

“Drinking in,” the man snaps, too busy glancing down at the smartphone held in his free hand to even make eye-contact with his barista. And that, that’s not justrude, that’s a crying shame when he has the luck to be served by the most attractive barista to work at Cable’s Coffee (and  _yes_ , Jean-Philippe is including Betsy in this ranking).

“Fine,” Jean-Philippe responds, maintaining his polite tone with only minimal effort. He doesn’t need another lecture from Cluster on manners and customer service. “That’s $4.30, monsieur.”

“Overpriced coffee and over-familar staff, but fine, given I am in desperate need,” the customer says, pocketing his phone and pulling out his wallet.

“I don’t make the prices, désolé” Jean-Philippe replies with insincere apology as he picks out one of their large plastic cups. “Can I have a name to go with that?”

White eyebrows shoot up to hide in that shock of unruly white hair. The customer looks as affronted as if he’d just been propositioned, rather than simply asked his name. Jean-Philippe smothers an amused smile, wondering how high those eyebrows would rise if he  _had_  propositioned him. Doubtless, it would have resulted in an incident that would require both Betsy and Cluster lecturing him on proper barista etiquette. “For what possible reason could you need to know such an irrelevant detail? Is knowledge of my name somehow integral to the coffee-making process, hm?” The customer positively glowers, eyebrows descending back down for maximum frown.

Jean-Philippe is  _delighted_. It normally takes much more baiting to get this kind of reaction. And such paranoia! He can tell he and this customer are going to get along splendidly (his refusal to wear a name badge is yet another point of contention between him and Betsy). “Company policy,” he replies smoothly, leaning over the counter casually, just slightly invading the customer’s personal bubble. “Wouldn’t want to get your order mixed-up with another customer’s, non?” He keeps the relaxed smile on his face as the customer looks pointedly round the deserted shop floor. It’s a good smile; mildly apologetic,don’t-blame-me-I-don’t-make-the-rules mixed with just enough amusement to make it obvious he’s having fun playing this game.

The customer shifts his weight agitatedly, hand straying back to the coat pocket he’d deposited his phone in. “Can it be an alias?”

It’s Jean-Philippe’s turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t see why not.” He’d wanted to learn the customer’s name, but it could be interesting to see the name he chooses to use. Revealing in its own way, and _besides_ , there’ll be other opportunities to learn the man’s name. He intends to make sure of that.

“Fine,” the customer says irritatedly. “Doctor… Nemesis.”

Jean-Philippe can feel his eyebrows climb ever higher.

“You said it could be an alias,” the customer says snappishly.

“I suppose I did,” Jean-Philippe allows, writing the name onto the cup quickly. “It’s just… not what I was expecting. “

“And just what precisely were you expecting?” The man, or Doctor, as Jean-Philippe supposes he can call him now, asks, heavy on the sarcasm. “After interacting with me for all of five minutes, what expectations could you really have? That is simply not enough data to generate reliable results, especially when it comes to something as complex as trying to predict the vagaries of human behaviour.”

“I suppose you are correct,” Jean-Philippe allows with a faintly mocking smile. Normally, he’d be more offended by the man’s air of superiority and assumptions about his own abilities, but somehow, on the Doctor, he just finds it vaguely endearing. “La solution is clearly for us to spend more time together, hm?”

“Are you, to use the colloquial phrase, ‘hitting’ on me?” The Doctor asks, sounding mildly disbelieving.

“Perhaps,” Jean-Philippe replies with a flirtatious smile,“or perhaps I’m only hoping you’ll be a return customer. After all,” he adds confidentially, “I am the best barista in town.”

“Hmph,” the Doctor snorts dismissively. “So far I’ve yet to see any evidence of that. You’re certainly not the fastest barista in town.” He looks pointedly at the clock on the wall.

“Ah, perhaps not, but I can take a hint,” Jean-Philippe says, pushing away from the counter. “Un moment, Doctor. Your coffee will be with you in no time at all.”

“Impossible, but hopefully it won’t take  _much_  time,” the Doctor says, walking towards the corner booth of the cafe. “I’ve already wasted enough on this foolishness.”

Jean-Philippe smirks at that, tightening his apron strings as he prepares to make the very best caramel mocha frappuccino of his illustrious career.

 

“Bon appetit.”

The Doctor doesn’t look up from the laptop he’s busily typing on, simply waves a hand. “Yes, yes. Leave it on the side.”

Jean-Philippe deflates slightly. His ego is hurt, he can’t deny. The frappuccino is a majestic monstrosity of a drink. There’s whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles. The caramel is swirled into the drink in a way that is both aesthetically pleasing and properly proportionate. He doesn’t even like making frappucinos! “Do you not wish to try it?” he asks, “to, ah, verify that it is indeed the very best frappucino you have ever had le plaisir to sample!”

The Doctor looks at Jean-Philippe over his laptop with a guarded expression. He doesn’t respond.

“As a scientific taste test!” Jean-Philippe cries desperately, in a moment of inspiration. Appealing to science. That seems to do the trick. The Doctor reaches for the drink grudgingly.

“I don’t recall asking for whipped cream or sprinkles,” he says, looking down at the drink.

“Ah, you did not. I thought you’d like them. Was I wrong in my expectations?” Jean-Philippe presses, with mostly faux concern. It seems like a reasonable guess, seeing his mysterious customer has a sweet tooth, yet… his normal confidence seems to have abandoned him. It’s with actual relief that he takes in the little nod the Doctor gives. But then, the moment of truth. The Doctor takes a sip. Jean-Philippe waits with bated breath for him to pass judgement. “Well, man?” he cries impatiently, unable to contain himself. “How was it? Was it not the very best coffee you have ever had?”

“I suppose it’s better than average,” the Doctor says with a shrug, setting the drink carelessly down and returning to typing.

Jean-Philippe clutches his chest, speechless. Damned by faint praise indeed! He has never been more insulted! This pain is worse than Betsy’s last rejection of his romantic advances. Dejectedly, he slumps onto the other booth-chair.

There’s a pause in the frantic typing.  “Is it customary in this establishment for the staff to sit with the customers?” the Doctor inquires with false politeness. Jean-Philippe knows it is false, is not decieved into thinking the sudden change in attitude is due to repentance. This Doctor, whoever he really is, named himself truely. Jean-Philippe has found himself a nemesis.

“Un moment,” he says gloomily, staring at that damned frappuccino. “Forgive me if I need a moment to recover from your cruel words, Doctor. Average. Sacre bleu.”

A sniff, and typing resumes. “Actually, I said  _better_  than average. But feel free to wallow in your melodrama. Clearly, you have nothing better to do.”

“You think there is nothing to it, eh? The job of a barista?” Jean-Philippe says, sitting up in annoyance.

“Given recent observations, no, not particularly,” the Doctor says drily, taking another sip of his drink.

Jean-Philippe sneers and sinks sulkily into the seat. “I don’t know what I expected from a person whose drink of choice is a caramel mocha frappuccino.”

There’s a frosty pause. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” the Doctor says.

Jean-Philippe sneers with added intensity. “Désolé. I meant what did I expect, asking an opinion from someone with such plebian taste.”

“Ah,” the Doctor says disdainfully. “I see you think my choice of drink means I’m not a connoisseur when it comes to coffee. Well, you elitist snob of a man, you are incorrect. I am familiar with a variety of roasts, and a veritable plentitude of beverages. I enjoy coffee in all its many and varied forms, including this.” He takes a defiant gulp.

“Ah,” Jean-Philippe says with a smirk, suddenly relaxing into the cushioned back of the booth. “So you do like the drink I prepared for you.”

“I never said I didn’t, you ridiculous buffoon!” the Doctor says, spluttering. “I simple said it wasn’t the best I’d ever had.”

“So what was the best you’d ever had, hm?” Jean-Philippe asks, with sudden intensity, leaning across the table and closing the laptop lid with a click. It’s masking the man’s face, and that simply will not do. Jean-Philippe needs to see him admit that he was wrong! “What was there that I did not provide, hmm?!” He grips the Doctor by the lapels, pulling him closer. “What can I do to improve?!”

The Doctor’s eyes are very wide, but he doesn’t seem overly alarmed. Perhaps he will complain, and perhaps Jean-Philippe will have to endure another lecture from Cluster or Betsy, or possibly the both of them together, but he simply does not care. “… I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I simply believe there is always room for improvement.”

Jean-Philippe ignores his last words, focusing on the ones he cares about. “So you lied. My coffee is the best you have ever tasted, c’est vrai?”

The Doctor hesitates, then gives a small nod. “The best I have tasted so far,” he qualifies.

“Yes,” Jean-Philippe says in exultation. He closes his eyes for a second to savour it, the sensation of sudden, intense pleasure that the confession brings. He opens his eyes again, focusing on the Doctor’s face. It is in very close proximity to his own.

“Are you going to unhand me at any point today?” the Doctor asks impatiently, though he doesn’t exactly fight to pull free from Jean-Philippe’s grip. “Some of us have actual  _work_  to do.”

“Hmm,” Jean-Philippe muses. “I suppose I could. You have some coffee on your upper lip, you know? I think I want to lick it off.”

The Doctor’s body tenses, but he still doesn’t pull back. “That sounds unhygenic.”

“I suppose it is, rather,” Jean-Philippe allows, leaning in lazily, giving the man plenty of time to pull away. He doesn’t. Jean-Philippe lets his tongue flick over the man’s lips, tasting the sweetness on them. They part as the Doctor inhales shakily, and Jean-Philippe moves in for a proper kiss, hungrily chasing his lips. The Doctor’s mouth tastes chocolately, with the faint bitterness of coffee just underneath. Jean-Philippe feels his own lips curve in a smirk against the Doctor’s, moves his hands from the suit lapels to curl in the Doctor’s shaggy hair as he deepens the kiss.

“Ahem.”

Jean-Philippe ignores Betsy’s irritated interruption to continue kissing his Doctor, who is kissing back just as fervently.

“ _Ah-hem_.”

Reluctantly, he pulls away, smiling apologetically to the Doctor, who lets him pull away with thinly concealed annoyance. “Yes, belle?”

Betsy doesn’t bother to hide her own annoyance, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“And I am,” he protests lightly, gesturing to the Doctor. “See, one very satisfied customer, non?”

Betsy narrows her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Shaking her head, she slips on her own apron. “Yes, well if you’re quite done. That wasn’t what I had in mind when I told you to improve your customer service, Jean.”

“We all our own approaches,” he says with a shrug, but obediently stands. Glancing back to the Doctor, he makes an apologetic expression. “I apologise monsieur. My co-worker, she is a cruel mistress. I must return to my duties. My shift ends at five, however…” he adds, hopefully.

The Doctor doesn’t make eye-contact, and Jean-Philippe feels a stab of disappointment that surprises him with its violence. “I have a meeting,” the man says, sliding his laptop into the case. “Actually, I have another one in half an hour as a matter of fact. I have to leave.”

“Ah,” Jean-Philippe doesn’t bother to conceal his disappointment.

The Doctor looks up, meets his eyes finally. “I will, however, be returning to this establishment tomorrow to sample further examples of you coffee-making skills. After all, this coffee could have been a fluke.”

“Hopefully you wish to sample my other skills too,” Jean-Phillipe says in almost a purr. “I assure you, Doctor, you won’t be disappointed.”

Betsy makes a disgusted noise in the background. Jean-Philippe ignores her. She had her chance!

The Doctor’s eyes widen and he looks somewhat flustered. “Yes, well. We shall see.” He leaves hurriedly, but not without pausing to look back. Jean-Philippe makes sure to give him a little wave.

“There goes another satisfied customer,” he says with a sigh, moving back around the counter.

“There goes another customer you’ve scared off, more likely,” Betsy says with a disaproving sniff. “Don’t make me have to give you a lecture on sexually harrassing customers.”

“Ah, I was not harassing him!” Jean-Philippe protests.

“He left in a hurry,” Betsy points out, cleaning down the counters.

“Ah, but he’ll be back,” Jean-Philippe tells her as he lazily watches her work. “I know it.”

He curls the napkin he’d taken from the table tighter in his hand. On it, there is a name and a number.


End file.
